


These Days

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: Written for cycle 2 of thegameison_sh, round 3: "older/younger."





	

The skin at the back of Sherlock's neck is softer these days, but it's still as sensitive as it ever was, and when John presses his lips there Sherlock still gives the same little shiver, the same almost-inaudible exhale, the same glare out of the corner of his eye. He’s taken to wearing his hair shorter than it was when John met him, but that was fifteen years ago, and John delighted in discovering that Sherlock really was vain enough to scowl every morning in the mirror at the gray at his temples. He wears glasses when he reads the paper and hides them in the cupboard when Mycroft visits, but Mycroft is looking world-weary himself and doesn’t bother to deduce and tease.

Sherlock’s hands are still as beautiful as they ever were, long-fingered, strong and deft, and they can still bring John up to the edge of ecstasy over and over with the same apparent lack of effort. John covers those hands with his own and Sherlock twines their fingers together, and John wonders that it’s been so long, that these things are so familiar and noticeable at the same time. He doesn’t wonder that they’ve lasted. Even in the three years they spent apart, he knew this was it for him.

That was the first time they fucked, he thinks idly, laying his cheek against the back of Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s shirt is cool silk with warm skin underneath, and he shrugs a bit at the contact when John’s unshaven jaw scratches against him. That day, Sherlock had made his grand re-entrance, and John had honest-to-god fainted, right there in his office. He’d never been so embarrassed in his life, but it wasn’t just the fainting that did it. He’d woken up with his head in Sherlock’s lap, Sherlock’s beautiful, wonderful, arrogant face above him, and he’d scrambled to his feet. Sherlock had stood, rising smoothly from the floor, and John had taken a swing at him.

The blood had bloomed shockingly real from Sherlock’s cut lip, and the surprise had shown clear on Sherlock’s face. And then John had grabbed him by the collar of his perfectly pressed shirt and slammed their mouths together. Sherlock’s arms went around his waist instantly, his body too skinny, uncared for, against John’s. John had fucked him right there on the desk, clawing at his back and biting possession into his shoulder. 

The bruises he’d worn for a week after, on his arms and wrists, on his hips. Sherlock had pressed them with his fingertips, undressed John to get at them again, and John had spent every moment in awe that it was all true.

Sherlock tips his head back now, exposing his throat, and he looks at John above the glasses. 'Do you need something?' he asks, slow and sarcastic, and John just kisses his temple.

'Not a thing,' he says. 'Why, am I bothering you/'

'Not particularly,' Sherlock says, turning his gaze— but not his attention— back to the chemical experiment in front of him.

'What are you working on?' John asks, still draped over Sherlock’s back, comfy as you please.

'Bee pheromones,' Sherlock says, frowning at the petri dish. He shakes one hand loose of John’s clasp and touches a swab to the dish, and John watches him menace a bee in a jar with the swab. The bee lands on it, takes off, lands again. John isn’t sure what he’s seeing, but Sherlock says, 'Oh, really,' and leaves the swab to the bee in order to write something down.

Sherlock mentioned once that he wanted an apiary, but John had just said, 'Not in the flat,' and the matter had been dropped. Now John wonders if he’d let Sherlock have one if they lived somewhere else, somewhere with a yard, and a garden, and a view of the sea. Sherlock’s made plenty of money with his consulting and his detecting, and he’s got it stashed away somewhere and he won’t tell John how much it is. John knows it’s a lot, and suspects it’s a lot more than that. Sherlock won’t tell mostly because he doesn’t give a rat’s arse about it, but John thinks they could put it to use someday.

‘How much longer are you going to be?’ he asks, mouth back against Sherlock’s neck.

‘Not long, if you keep that up,’ Sherlock says, sounding disgruntled, but John persists. Sherlock tastes the same as he always has, too.


End file.
